


Petite Mort

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Couch Sex, Hand Jobs, Innuendo, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, That Ugly Living Room Set from Inspector Morse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22149991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: “You were very difficult,” Morse repeated. He leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper and their lips brushing together in a ghost of a kiss, “about the time of death. Again.”
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse, Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Petite Mort

Max had hated Morse’s sofa since the second he bought it and placed it, and it’s matching chair, in their immovable positions in his sitting room. The doctor said they looked like they were the same fabric as tour bus seats, and he wasn’t entirely wrong, but the colors were rich and the texture was soft, and it was a very comfortable sofa, wide and plush. In fact, if oriented properly, there was plenty of room for two grown men to have a bit of a cuddle.

It was, in fact, Morse’s very favorite place to enjoy his doctor's company.

The only thing he preferred more than a snuggle and a snog, was taking Max apart there, bit by bit, on his back on that horrendous upholstery he hated so much. He liked to watch him fall apart settled against the soft cushions covered in mottled gem tones that clashed with Max’s own classic and tasteful fashion sense.

His favorite sight was Max, unbuttoned and imperfect, tousled and pink and panting. It was just as he was now, as Morse balanced over the doctor and pressed the firm of his knee into the growing hardness between Max's legs. Both of their ties had disappeared over the back of the sofa and their collars been plucked open. There was always something astonishingly sexy about a neck that was hidden most of the time. Something undeniably attractive in the lines of the tendons, the veins popping as heartbeats pounded, in the ridge of a clavicle and the dip of the suprasternal notch.

Morse had learned that one. The suprasternal notch. Max had told him all about it years ago, with his mouth to Morse’s ear, his fingers dancing over his neck and chest. Max had made sure to explain every bit of his anatomy to him as he told him how arousing he found him, how attractive he was, and how much he loved him. Max made a point to show him, with his mouth and fingers and hungry eyes, and Morse would never ever forget the name of such a lovely bit of the human body again.

Max’s neck was especially satisfying to see after days - years - of cumulative time that he was buttoned up and trussed in his bow-ties. To see it removed, to peel Max’s layers away with his own two hands, to be allowed to, was a pleasure Morse could never be bored of.

“You were very difficult today,” Morse murmured against Max’s throat as plucked another button of his shirt open. His fingers scratched lightly through the man’s chest hair until he was stopped by the collar of his vest, “like this bloody vest is being right now.”

“Was I?” Max breathed. His hips lifted against Morse’s thigh, trapped as he was within his uncomfortably restrictive trousers. Max’s shoulders did a sort of wriggle that went all the way down his torso until he had settled down once more. He licked his lips and waited for Morse to lift his head, and when he did so, he pulled him in for a slow and devouring kiss.

When they came out of it, Max’s glasses had been plucked away, and Morse leaned to toss them into the opposite chair.

“Be careful!” Max chided, shoulders rising in complaint, but Morse pressed him back down again.

“You were _very_ difficult,” Morse repeated. He braced one hand on Max’s chest to keep him down while still hovering over him. He leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper and their lips brushing together in a ghost of a kiss, “about the time of death. Again.”

Max’s lips chased Morse’s as they moved away and there was an enraptured, weaving movement until he could catch him and pull him back in. They kissed again and while Max let out a gentle satisfied sound, Morse’s hand slid down his chest and over his belly until he was pulling up his vest to gain access to his trousers. He pressed his hand to the front of him, to his straining arousal, and gave him a slow massage through the taut fabric.

“Yes. Especially difficult,” Morse repeated against Max’s lips as he undid the man’s fly and Max hiked his hips upwards so the trousers could be loosened and slid down. Morse pulled Max's cock free and took a moment to enjoy the sight of his partner, the bare skin of his hips and stomach and the delicate curve of his thick length against his belly. Max's braces had slid down off of his shoulders and caught at his elbows and his hair was mussed and clinging to the garish sofa cushion behind him. Morse fixated on the bare skin, his hip and the seam of his belly, his softness, his bulk, and just how disheveled he was. He was Morse’s to touch and tease and enjoy, right there in his sitting room, with the shades drawn into dusky dim. His to have, right there on that dastardly sofa.

_His._

“Well,” Max sighed when he felt Morse’s fingers finally curl around him and squeeze with the slightest pressure, “I can’t do all the work for you.”

“You could make an educated guess for me.” Morse stroked him once, slow and agonizing, and Max shivered under him.

“That would be,” Max let out a soft and breathy _‘christ’_ as Morse stroked him again - slower than the first if that were possible. He finally forced out, “ _unprofessional_.”

Morse half growled and half laughed. It was typical of Max to remain so stubborn, even here as he was, at his mercy. It was part of why Morse loved him.

“You are a difficult man,” Morse kissed him again, this time stroking to an unhurried tempo. His hand slid from root to tip - steady, tight, and without compromise. There was only one pause, stroking him to the crown and squeezing as he swiped a thumb across the gathered moisture at the tip.

Max stuttered gently and one arm flew up beside his head to grip around the horrendous sofa arm for support.

“You really get me riled,” Morse growled low, leaning in to press their foreheads together as he stroked Max just a tad bit faster, “But even when you’re being prodigious prick, I still think you’re bloody brilliant.”

Max let out a single laugh that turned into a bit of a gasp as Morse once more pressed his thumb to his sensitive slit. His thighs strained momentarily and his belly bobbed as his body battled the desire for more and faster and release, “ _Especially_ because I’m a prodigious prick, you mean.”

It was Morse’s turn to laugh, his head dropping to Max’s shoulder and his hand slowing just a tad.

Max seemed to gather his wits then. He curled an arm up Morse’s back and ran his fingers through his hair and held him, enfolded him as best he could in his warmth, and tilted his head towards Morse’s.

“You’re brilliant enough on your own,” Max murmured to him, “idiotically so. You don’t need me or my opinions as much as you think you do.”

Morse lifted his head and met Max’s eyes and the curl of his lips was equal parts grave and amused and adoring, “I always need you.”

And that made Max blush. As if being on his back being taken apart wasn’t enough to do it, the pointed affection hammered it all home.

Morse pressed his face to Max’s neck again, pressed his teeth into the skin, and Max hissed as the pinch of pressure fired his nerves up like firecrackers from head to toe.

Morse finally sped his hand up once again and repeated, “Always.”

There weren’t anymore words then, not for the moment, just Morse stroking him, the sounds of flesh on flesh and the shift of clothing. Max’s breathing escalated moment by moment, his back arched and his hips tried to move in time with Morse’s hand. Morse kissed across his jaw until he found his lips and finally drew back enough to watch his face. He wanted to see Max’s dark blue eyes get inky and blown out, his hair spread in wild waves as he got closer, his breath come hot and hard between his moist pink lips.

“Morse,” Max’s voice was husky, deep, “...soon.”

“Oh?” Morse’s eye brows rose, “Do we have a more precise estimate by any chance?”

Max’s voice cracked a moment in disbelief, “Morse!”

“A time of _petite mort_ , perhaps?”

Morse felt Max’s body tense beneath him again in warning. He felt him writhe in his skin, his pleasure built to an infuriating pinnacle until he wanted to shrug out of his very self. He felt the tell tale signs of impending orgasm as Max’s head rolled back against the cushion and he spat out something very like ‘ _dear god_ ’ into the air.

Which was when Morse stopped his hand completely and released the other man and Max immediately let out a groan and an impatient bark of, “Oh, fuck you!”

“Tsk tsk,” Morse grinned. Getting Max to cross over the threshold into profanity pleased him to no end, but he did relent in his torture. Morse slid lower over the doctor’s hips, slid down to get a better grip on him and a better view. Max had one leg thrown off the sofa edge at this point, the other trapped in the seam of the cushions, and so Morse planted himself over the doctor’s spread thighs and used his elbows to hold the man in place as he took him in hand once again. There was no forgiveness in his grip this time, no relenting in his pace, and it was only moments before Max was once more fighting to keep himself from bucking into Morse’s restraining weight.

“Close-” Max panted again.

“How close?” Morse said cheekily.

Max’s eyes flew wide, “Morse!”

“Would a guess be _unprofessional_?” Morse stopped his stroking again, this time for a split second, but he didn't release him. Instead he gripped him tighter, holding him in place by his base.

Max nearly cried, “Oh, I hate you!”

Morse tutted but started stroking again, full long motions, and his hand moved in tight circles, but it wasn’t hard to bring Max back to that edge. He hovered there, desperate and needy, his body tight and compressed and wound and unable to let go until Morse granted it.

“A shame you hate me so much,” Morse leaned closer gave Max a hungry look from between his legs, and smiled, “Because I love you so very dearly.”

And that was when he slipped his lips over the crown of him and took Max into his mouth until he hit the back of his throat. It only took a couple of pumps, his tight hand chased with the suction of his hot mouth, and Max’s hand dropped into Morse’s hair and curled around the back of his skull and held as he cried out his name and spilled between his lips.

Morse released him while Max rode out his waves of ecstasy. The doctor breathed heavily and trembled still when Morse eased the man’s gripping fingers from his hair. Max cracked his eyes as he sensed the shift and stroked Morse's cheek gently before he could escape and Morse caught the hand to place a kiss against the back of it. It was Morse that was hard now, needy and hungry, uncomfortable in his confining clothing after watching Max come apart underneath him.

He palmed himself with frustration as he rose from that sofa of his and poured himself a finger of whiskey to wash his mouth clean. A flannel came next, to wipe his face and hands, and by the time he was done Max was shifting and feeling his way through the re-acquisition of his senses and the jelly wobble of his limbs. Max actually yawned and wriggled and Morse suspected that if he let him, he'd just have himself a kip - even half dressed and covered in the remnants of his own sex.

“We’ll have none of that..” Morse chuckled. He was still admiring Max splayed and peeled apart and soft and wriggling and warm. All for him. All because of him. He was still hanging out of his trousers, still with his vest hiked up to his chest, still buzzing and messy in his post orgasm haze.

Morse loved him so very dearly.

He gave the doctor a cleanup and tucked him back into his trousers and buttoned him up and Max thanked him with a kiss that carried a taste of whiskey and Max’s own musk. They both hummed pleasantly and Max was full set in the sort of lazy affection that always came after his release. He nipped Morse’s lips and licked across them, as held him tight and close. He was always greedy for the contact, a right cuddler, and very happy to take advantage of the two person capacity of the abhorrent sofa if Morse would let him.

But Morse refused to lay down, despite Max’s coaxing, and finally Max felt Morse’s own untended arousal pressing against his thigh. As their kiss broke he flicked his wrist and tossed his sleeve back enough to spy his wrist watch with a squint, “I can’t be entirely precise but I believe the answer to your previous question is between 9:00 and 9:15..”

Morse looked at the clock on the mantle, then back at Max and pursed his lips.

Max nudged him, “But there could be another _petite mort_ rather soon if we get off this bloody couch and go to bed.”

Morse’s hips shifted as he plucked at his trousers again in discomfort before he moved to stand, “Sounds like a tip worth pursuing.”

“Could be several,” Max took his hand to be helped up.

“Tips or _deaths_..” Morse smirked.

“You’ll just need the one tip, I hope,” Max pursed his lips, “But as to the rest- we’ll have to see. I could hardly make a guess now with such meager evidence...”

“Meager!” Morse looked affronted as he pulled Max to his feet and when they stood chest to chest, Max once more pulled him into a deep and promising kiss. 

“Well,” Morse licked his lips as they parted. He could feel it now, his heartbeat through every inch of him, throbbing need for Max singing in his blood as they pressed together and walked sideways out of the room. It was time to bid the sitting room - and the horrific sofa - goodbye, “I could hardly ask you to make a guess. We'll have to test the evidence...”

Max hummed and smiled as his fingers ghosted up Morse's chest and plucked a few more of his shirt buttons open, "Only a thorough investigation will do. I'd hate to be unprofessional."

**Author's Note:**

> Idk... they always just go into weird innuendo territory.. and make crime and sex puns. I have no control over this.


End file.
